


Darling Adversary

by aactionjohnny



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Some PariGing trash I'm experimenting with. If people like it I'll write more, chronicling their relationship.





	Darling Adversary

He thinks it starts so tritely, and he’s tried his best to be so unique. Shining like some rare diamond. A blood diamond, he’s always baring his teeth. But this is how terrible movies begin. The kind you don’t care about the plot of, right? But he guesses now he understands where those ideas come from.

It was hardly ever a seething hate. Pariston simply doesn’t have it in him. Ging was always a joyful nuisance. Just enough of an idiot not to truly intimidate him, and clearly everyone agreed. Even Cheadle, uptight little thing. No one could take that ragged man seriously as a threat.

The only part of Pariston that feels threatened is his facade. He found he couldn’t always smile around Ging. He couldn’t wear that sparkling mask. Not all the time. His face only drooped into a frown when alone, or when staring down that mess of a man. 

But it was never a seething hate.

That’s why he does it, he tells himself. That’s why he finds him in the middle of the night, tracking him like prey. That’s why he saunters into the observation room as if on accident, seeing Ging right where he knew he’d be. Staring out that wide, glass window, so dramatic. And people want to call  _ Pariston  _ the showboat, the drama queen. Ging is always decorating the landscape, standing on every horizon. 

He walks up behind him, still suit-clad and put-together. 

“Ging-san~”

He always seems to sing a little more. That name is clumsy and hardly melodious, but he says it like chimes.

“What d’you want?” So gruff, so tired. It’s no wonder he can’t sleep.

“Hmm...just wandering.” 

He slips those long fingers over Ging’s threadbare sash, rests his chin on one tense shoulder. A palm sliding over the seam of his too-loose trousers. Pariston swears he feels him shiver, feels him breathe like he’s taken too hot a sip. He can feel scruff against his soft cheek.

“You’re a real asshole,” Ging tells him, never taking his eyes off the lights of the city below them.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Pariston has played it out countless times in his head. A dim night, an empty scotch glass on the railing. Ging can’t possibly refuse him. They stare too long, their feet touch too often beneath that long, tacky table. 

He doesn’t tell him to stop. He keeps running his palm up, down, up, down. Ging’s elbows shake some, his toes curling so obviously in those horrible boots.

“This one of your games?” Ging is grinning like a man  _ ought  _ to, getting jerked off. But Pariston knows that’s not why. “You gonna get me close and leave?”

“Mm, I haven’t decided.” He tugs then at the fabric of the sash, letting their skin touch, so warm, Ging stiffening in his hand. “Maybe it’s a power play.”

“You think I can’t get this anywhere else?” 

Pariston knows. Women and young, foolish men must throw themselves at his feet, just looking for someone to wreck them. Someone to be cruel and make them cum.

“Not in this political climate,” Heaven knows he’s not well-liked. But he’s loaded, and there’s something about him that might make a man weak in the knees. Pariston doesn’t like that.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot more than give me a handjob like some teenager, Hill.”

“Am I? Why?”

“Because I bet you’re better at sucking dick, you fuckin’ brat.”

Even Pariston shudders at that. He ought to have expected a man like Ging to be so vile and forward. That he should so easily make him needy, and willing to do whatever awful thing comes out of his mouth.

“You might be right, Ging-san~” He runs a thumb over that weeping head. He’s modest, honestly. One might expect him to be packing so much heat. Pariston won’t tell a soul. It’s a nice little secret for him to keep. Like blackmail. He knows the shape and color, the warmth. The taste. “I bet you’d like to feel a little more powerful than me, hm?”

He grins because he knows what he’s done. He knows he’s touched that prideful little nerve Ging has buried in the skin of his neck. He sees his grip on the railing tighten.

“It’s not gonna make a difference. People are still gonna hate both of us, no matter how much you soften me up.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” Two hands now, letting those swaths of fabric fall to the carpeted floor. It’s rather awful of him, isn’t it? This is the very window Netero used to gaze out. He sullies it and he smiles. “Maybe I just want to know why you think so highly of yourself.”

“Well, if you’re any good at this, maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Pariston giggles, girlish and entertained. Ging truly is a force to be reckoned with. It makes him stir, makes him worry. He had hoped to come here with the ball in his court, but now--

Now it appears he’s won nothing. Now he just wants to feel him, to drink him in. Foolish Pariston, having a heart when he knows better.

He lets go of that hardened prize, he turns Ging with his wide hands and long fingers, and drops promptly to his knees, grinning up at him as ever.

“You smug fuck…” Ging mumbles, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. 

“Rude.” He even kisses it. Like he’s so damn sweet. Like he isn’t champing at the bit to swallow him whole as pure revenge. But that want runs deep. It seeps through him like a hot bath. His skin burns like disease as he opens his jaw. He cares so much for his soft lips, always moisturizing. It must feel like heaven. He can tell by how Ging sighs and leans back against the railing like he’s ready for sleep. Lazy bastard. Pariston bets he’ll be the one doing all the work, much as he’d like Ging to utterly skullfuck him--

Goodness, he’s so lewd when he’s playing. It must look so pretty, him in his well-tailored suit, feathery hair moving about so neatly. Dim eyes closed, but Ging knows what’s behind those eyelids. He hopes it strikes fear into that cold heart of his.

He bobs down his entire length, slow and teasing. One of those calloused hands is resting on his head, and he scowls. Nasty, but he’ll allow it. He wants to send Ging to bed thinking of him, wants him to wake up panting, sweating. Nightmares of his mouth dripping with cum. His skin tastes surprisingly clean; no doubt he’s taken advantage of the many amenities of their headquarters. Thank god. 

He wonders if someone might barge in. He wonders if Cheadle can barely sleep, knowing he’s out there. She’d be too horrified to say a word, walking in on this sight. It makes Pariston hard to think of it, the gasping. Seeing himself from the outside, bulging against his expensive pants with Ging’s cock in his mouth. And Ging,  _ oh, _ the sweet enemy, quaking above him like unsteady ground.

“Told ya--” Ging knows by looking. Pariston is the sort of man who lives for this. Subservient but in charge. He sucks him off to earn something. Hardly respect, hardly love. But a bond that can be broken. One can hardly fuck someone over if they remember pouring their seed down their willing throat…

It doesn’t take all that long. More blackmail. But he grins around him as Ging cums, even humming happily to himself when he gulps. Making a show of it, making noise. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning as if they’re chatting in the boardroom. 

“Well?” Pariston places his hands neatly on his knees, sitting  _ seiza  _ as if in deference.

Ging tucks himself furtively back into his clothes.

“A hunter’s gotta have good instincts.” He winks at him. Fucking _ winks, _ the prideful asshole, and Pariston struggles to keep his face composed. He’s lost. He’s utterly defeated, he knows, as Ging walks by him, waving carelessly. He stays on his knees as if he’s been vanquished. The grin on his darling adversary’s face tells him something. Like they’d both planned it, like they’d both miscalculated the risk. Ging is still blushing and panting, his hands dangling rarely outside of his deep pockets. “Thanks, Hill.”

The door slams and he startles. It’s so unlike him. There grows that seething hate. The audacity, to  _ thank  _ him. As if it was some kind and selfless deed. 

Tomorrow their feet will touch beneath the table. Tomorrow they’ll fluster their dear, skittish Cheadle together. It’s just too much fun, this.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse.


End file.
